Poetrying
by Elanor Pam
Summary: In a clear, moonlit night, someone is awake, scribbling down thoughts on a score sheet... begins with a poem, but becomes prose later on. Very romantic.


**Poetrying  
By Elanor Pam**

August 1, 2003: Now today was a very productive day. After writing about four or five pages in other fic (using font Verdana 8pts ^^;), I just felt like writing something disgustingly romantic and mushy. And as we don't have nearly enough romantic VoH fanfiction, well…

**Disclaimer:** Violinist of Hameln belongs to a blessed man called Michiaki Watanabe.

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Moonlight showers down  
Like tears of tenderness,  
Caressing her face.  
Shines, so beautiful! 

The stars blink, flickering  
Like kind eyes, twinkling   
Admiring her frame.   
Sleeps, so beautiful! 

Flowers, under her breath,  
Dance ever-so-softly  
Petals long to touch  
Her shimmering cheeks! 

Sleeping and shimmering  
Under clear moonlight.   
Angel sent to Earth,   
Bless me with a word…

Moonlight showers down  
Overwhelming light!   
And the stars blink, flickering,   
Dancing ever so softly,   
This overwhelming feeling!   
Petals long to touch   
Her innocent lips

The pencil slipped, scratching out a line that went from the "s" in "lips" to the opposite corner of the score sheet, and rolled to the ground. It was no wonder; his hand had jerked so heavily that he half expected the pencil to perforate the sheet or go flying somewhere. 

Hamel ignored the rolling pencil, putting a hand on his chest and breathing deeply instead of picking it back. Heck, trembling like that, he wouldn't even manage to reach his hand out in the right direction. He felt his face burn, and got angry at himself. Damn, I'm not Raiel. He wiped some sweat from his face, breathing deeply again, and decided that, if anybody happened to wake up and see him like that, he'd fake having had a nasty nightmare. He wondered whether nightmares made people blush, but parried the argument by pointing out to himself that some made people feverish. Yeah, it was a good excuse.

He looked to the only proof of his crime, the silly piece of "poetrying" he had caught himself writing. He looked up to the source of his inspiration, and caught himself in the middle of a shaky sigh.

Flute happened to be sleeping about three meters in front of him, under a high, naked tree. The moon was shining brightly; the night was crystal clear, and the pale moonlight shone on her peaceful, sleeping face. Her eyelashes threw pale, thin, almost invisible shadows on her cheeks, shadows which seemed to tease him; her small, delicate nose, was blowing a delicate wind as she breathed, the little wild flowers in front of her face swaying almost imperceptibly. Her dark hair, free of its ribbons, was spilled all around her face, reflecting the moonlight almost like a river flowing between stones would. 

Hamel wondered where the cheesy comparisons were coming from, and asked himself whether staying too long around Raiel was doing something weird to his brain. But, as quickly as the thought came, it was completely forgotten, because his eyes happened to get stuck on her parted lips. 

He managed to gulp down another shaky, wistful sigh, and felt the blood rush to his face again. Well, yeah, he wanted to kiss her lips. And then he wanted to punch himself for admitting it. But he probably wouldn't be able to; the warm, enveloping, overwhelming feeling she was bringing him… he just wouldn't be able to bring any pain to any creature, including himself. That's a plus, he thought, as he sighed shakily again and noticed that he was still staring at her. 

She was pretty. Well, she had always been beautiful, he always knew that. Not that voluptuous beauty of Sizer's; hell no, it would only destroy that touch of innocence she had. It was… something… her smile, maybe… and the light in her eyes, too, and the way she walked, so light, as if she hadn't any regret to weight down her soul… actually, he didn't have a clue. She was just pretty, just too pretty for him to resist. 

He had already gotten so used to having her around that, during the day, he would kind of forget it while they argued and just went about on mazoku-buttkicking business; sometimes it would suddenly come to him – Flute's smiling, why does it feel like there is something funny wriggling inside my chest? –, but if he tried hard, he'd find something to distract him enough, and, if everything else failed, he could try making her angry – being smacked into the ground can be rather distracting.

But the nights were relentless; here he was, enraptured by the way her skin gleamed under the moonlight, and her parted lips… damn your lips, Flute! But his heart was beating softly, so softly, it seemed afraid of waking her up. And each soft beat whispered blessings, and again he could only sigh. 

He had long given up on stopping with the shuddering sighs, but a few moments of trying to get back to himself made him notice a little smile on his own lips. How long, he thought, until I start drooling? 

He put a hand to his chest, breathing heavily and letting another painful, shuddering sigh out. He wished that thing inside his chest would stop squirming. He thought that maybe it would stop if he held Flute tightly against him, but a more logical-sounding part of his mind said that he just wanted some excuse to do so. He shrugged to himself, well, the two things seemed related. Flute -> funny feeling -> weird thoughts.

He looked back to the score sheet on his lap. He wasn't sure what was going on inside his head when he decided to write that poor excuse for a poem, but maybe he just wanted to throw some of it out of him – that overwhelming feeling. Maybe that's why people sigh so much when they're in this same spot, he thought, trying to keep his eyes from trailing back to Flute; I feel like I'm drowning, I need air. He sighed again, shaky breath escaping his lips – still, this is ridiculous. I feel so ridiculous.

He started to read his little piece of poetry again, sputtering a bit in a few way-too-cheesy-for-his-tastes parts; the last strophe was by far the most confusing (he could barely remember writing them, as he, drowsy, light-headed, threw in scrapes of thoughts floating around his mind), and he ended up jerking again as he arrived at the "innocent lips" part. While he tried to calm his racing heart down, he thought that, being his feelings thrown in paper, the poetry wasn't _that_ bad; he still had other score sheets, if needed, so it wasn't that big a loss. His eyes trailed down the line his jerking hand had scratched on the sheet. It somewhat represented his feelings, too – falling, drowning. He sighed again. I should really stop sighing, his mind said. At least before I breathe a fly in.

He looked to the side, noticing for the first time that the fire had burned out completely, and, seemingly, a long time ago. He got up slowly, legs feeling weak (probably because he had been sitting for so long), and proceeded to try to light the dry wood again, and make it a respectable campfire, before going back to his little daydream. After a few minutes of fumbling with stones, he walked back to his friendly tree root with a burned finger, picking his almost forgotten pencil on the way. 

He opened his backpack and put his pencil inside it; he looked at the score sheet for a moment, then folded it, stuffing it into the bag along with the others. Now that he thought about it, though, it was a good thing the pencil hadn't perforated the sheet, because he had been supporting it with his legs. He cringed; having a pencil perforate your leg would hardly be pleasant. 

He closed the bag. Now go sleep. He turned to Flute, slowly, and rested his chin on a hand, his elbow on a knee. Nice try. Thanks. His own lips parted in a small smile. He felt better than when he was drunk, with the minor setback of sighing every fifty seconds, but it was ok. He let himself forget that he was a monster, son of another monster. I want to kiss her. 

But more than that, I want this moment to last forever. 

He sighed, that feeling was overwhelming him and he wasn't sure how long it would take for it to leak out. But the others probably knew it already. He sighed, leaning back against the tree trunk and relaxing completely. Drown me. 

And he slipped into peaceful dreams. 

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…I can't believe I began this fic and finished it all in the same day. And my first poetry!! Yay!! I should try doing it more often. It didn't come out that bad at all (apart from the "Angel" part, that sounded like a poem for Sizer). Does Hamel sound too cheesy? Too OOC for his manga self? I just wanted to write something heartwarming, I don't know. Better than my previous fic, that one was kind of depressing. I'll probably write a Flute-POV one, what do you think? Review, review?


End file.
